Love and War
by Stephaniesparkles
Summary: Cato seems to be a ruthless killing machine, but what was really going on in his head during the reaping and the games? Was he always insane? And was his lethal counterpart, Clove, just an ally- or something more? Rated T for brief language and violence.
1. The Reaping

Summary: Cato seems to be a ruthless killing machine, but what is really going on inside his head when he leaps forward to volunteer for the games? Was he crazy all along, or did the arena slowly change him? And is his lethal female counterpart, Clove, just an ally- or something more?

I had waited such a long time for this day.

The sun was high in the sky above the square where groups of kids huddled together by the masses, youngest to the front. I stood in the very back, along with some of the other largest eighteen-year-old boys as we sized each other up.

_This year is my year._

I would have competition, of course, but I had an advantage to get me closer to the prize. I had not only my age to rely on, but _I _had a story. Something the Capitol could bank on, should they run out of things to gossip about for this year's tributes. I would never forget the 67th Hunger Games, and no one else would either, once I was through with them.

"Hey, good luck," said Bromley, my best friend. He winked at his girlfriend, Clarissa, who stood across the way in the large group of girls. All of us, children ready to be reaped. "May the odds be ever in your fav—"

"Oh shut up," I said briskly. "I don't need your damn 'odds.' I've waited too long for this."

Bromley smirked as the mentors and chaperones made their way to their seats. I recognized Brutus, the large, hulking man who would be my mentor. His eyes scanned the crowd, as if he was strategizing the best way to survive. I knew we would make a great team.

Mayor Larks walks forward and begins to read the dry history of Panem and District 2 that I have been forced to listen to since I was twelve years old. Then he reads our list of victors, 19 male and 14 female. He finishes with, "And of course, we hope that this year, we may add another name to that list."

_Me, _I think desperately. _It will be me._

Our chaperone, a ridiculously flamboyant man named Peridot with hair in a long, sleek lime-colored ponytail and silver tattoos adorning his face, steps forward to reach into the girls' reaping ball. He digs through thousands of slips of paper, determining who will be the next girl to die from the district. Because she won't be the victor. It will be me.

He gets a grip on a slip of paper. You can hear all the girls sigh as he unfolds it and reads, "Clove Reddenfield!"

Everyone looks around madly, trying to find the one who was picked. Clove Reddenfield makes her way to the podium. I recognize her face vaguely, perhaps I have seen her around the town once in a while. She is tall, thin, and pale, and dressed in a siren red frock. Her dark hair is brushed down her back, which is straight as a pole. She doesn't look afraid, rather, she looks challenging. Like she is already hunting for her next victim. She may be impressive, but not intimidating.

Peridot congratulates her and then migrates to the large glass ball full of boys' names. He shuffles around searching for what could be one of my seven slips of paper. He draws one out, unfolds it, and reads, "James Hackett!"

My back stiffens as I watch James make his way to the podium. He is tiny. Weak. Pathetic. He looks to be about twelve years old. He is, in the split second I have to evaluate him, a sad excuse for a tribute.

"ME!" I yell. "I volunteer!" I push my way, none too gently, past all the other boys milling around, past all the obstructions in my path. I reach the front of the crowd and the twelve year olds gaze at me in what I can only describe as awe, including James.

Peridot looks pleased. After all, no one likes it when a twelve-year-old is chosen. "Very well! Any other volunteers?"

He doesn't bother to scan the crowd long. "Alright then, what's your name, son?"

"Cato," I say proudly. "Cato Stelle."

I climb the stairs and take my place next to Clove. She looks at me, one eyebrow raised, then tosses her glossy dark hair. She has confidence enough, and could make a valuable ally, but she is considerably smaller than me. I could keep her around long enough and then strangle her pretty little neck with one hand. Brutus is smirking behind me. He always likes the eager ones. Little James scoots back to his place among the other children. Cowardly little thing. I probably did him a favor.

There are usually more volunteers, but no one steps up. Good. They all knew I wanted this. Larks reads the Treaty of Treason, and I step forward to shake Clove's hand, staring her dead in the eye. She doesn't even wince as I crush her hand, but I'm not afraid of her, no matter how tough she is. As the anthem plays, I can think of only one thing:

_This year is my year._


	2. Goodbyes

The Justice Building is a polished, no-nonsense edifice of all steely, straight, gray architecture. I have never had cause to be in here before. Families of dead tributes are not given any awards or medals for their losses. Tributes are nothing but pawns on the Capitol's huge arena gameboard.

The inside is how I expected it to be, square rooms painted pearly shades of gray and green, simple, wooden furniture. Instead of sitting on the chaise that has been offered for relaxation during my goodbyes, I stand defiantly in the center of the room. I am a tribute now. No weakness.

My father enters first. He is a tall, muscular, imposing man with skin that is tanned and rough like mine and dark hair that covers his head and falls onto his chest in a scraggly beard. My brothers are not with him. Perhaps they are still slaving away in the Nut, though my father has allegedly been informed of his son's departure.

We stand in silence as he eyes me up and down. I stare squarely into my father's eyes, challenging him to give me his approval or go away now. I must show him I have no fear.

Finally, he says, "Looks like you're finally on your way."

"Yes," I answer.

"Don't fail me like Flint did. Make me proud, son," he says brusquely.

Soon enough the Peacekeepers are in the room, ready to escort my father away.

He leaves me with, "You know what to do."

That's it. No hugs, no encouraging words, not even a pat on the shoulder for good luck.

The next visitor isn't quite as firm as my father. She comes in, glancing around nervously, looking shaken. It's my mother, a lean, pale, blue-eyed version of me. I have her face, as I'm told.

She crosses over to the couch, and sits, then her eyes dart up to me. "Sit, Cato, please," she begs.

I hold my ground. She bites her lip, then quickly gets up and pulls me into her arms.

"Mother!" I begin, outraged, but she only holds me tighter.

"Cato, please listen to me. I know what your father told you, to hunt and fight and take down the others and do everything to impress everyone with your strength. But…but…" her eyes shine with tears. "If it comes down to it, run, Cato. Flee. Do what it takes to come home." She draws a shaky breath. "Flint already made that mistake once. It cost him everything."

I stare into her blue eyes. "Flint was weak and foolish. I know better."

She looks terribly upset. "He made a mistake, Cato! A mistake anyone can make! Please, just don't let me lose another son!"

"Let go of me," I say, pushing her away, and she sinks onto the chaise and cries.

She cries until the Peacekeepers drag her away, and then I sit, shaking her ideas off like insects crawling all over my skin. My father is the one with the real advice to follow. In the Hunger Games, it's fight or flight. And the fighters are the ones who come out on top.

I don't expect to have any more visitors, but then the door is pushed open by Cinnabar, a girl in my classes in school. She has shining, deep red hair. I've admired her for quite a while, but she never seemed interested in me. Oh well. When I when, she'll be queuing up to be my girlfriend.

She blushes when she sees me. "Cato, is it?" I nod. "I came to see Clove. She's my best friend," she explains. "But I wanted to wish you good luck. And give you this."

She stands on tiptoe and quickly kisses my lips before scurrying out of the room unaccompanied. I smirk. It's about time she came around. I'll just have to remember her when I come home, if I can, among all my other suitors.

Finally, the Peacekeepers come back one final time, to collect me. My eldest living brother, Micah, is among them. He gives me one gruff nod as a salute as I get into the car that will take me to the train, and eventually, the Capitol. I wonder where Clove is, and if she had more visitors than me. No matter. I'll be seeing mine again.

There are Capitol reporters and cameras all over the train station, trying to catch a glimpse of the mighty Cato and Clove. I catch sight of her face and can tell she hasn't been crying. Her bravery is once again commendable. I smile as the cameras flock to my face like bees to honey. It feels wonderful to be admired, and this is only a taste.


	3. Allies

The train is full of finely furnished rooms, including one for each tribute. I walk into mine, and having nothing to unpack, stretch out on the bed. I'll need all the rest I can get, because goodness knows I'll be making this the quickest games ever.

I investigate the drawers of my bureau, knowing I will have to be dressed for dinner soon. I select a tight-fitting black shirt and pants, then slide my token into my pocket. I had it at the reaping this morning: a small, pointy stone of pure quartz. Flint found it when he used to work in the Nut. It will remind me why I am here.

Soon I am rushed to another car for supper with Peridot, Brutus, the female mentor, Bristol, and of course, Clove. She wears a tight green dress and her hair is in a low ponytail. It occurs to me that she has not said a word to me the entire time since the reaping. Then again, I haven't had much opportunity to talk to her.

"Dinner," says Peridot smoothly, "is served."

Various courses are brought out to us one by one. Clove eats in a dangerously neat way. I can only wonder if she kills this way too. Midway through the sorbet at the end, it's time to watch the recap of the reapings. Excellent, I can begin to strategize.

District 1 is first, and I know I will be expected to ally with them. The girl is beautiful, and the boy is strong and sturdy. A good team.

After I watch myself bound forward next to Clove, I watch District 3, which is a pair of scrawny thirteen year olds that will make easy prey, and 4, another set of allies. The boy is very tall and muscular, the girl, lean and almost bored-looking. I take note of my potential allies' names; _Glimmer and Marvel, Freesia and Dune._

District 5 features an unusual pair, a slight 15 year old girl and a boy who is cowardly-looking despite his large size. District 6 has an average-looking pair, and 7 is a pair of cousins, a tall seventeen year old girl named Everly, and her cousin Tim, who is something of a joke. He is twelve and I could crush his skull with two hands.

Districts 8 and 9 are again nothing special, though Coco, the female from 9, appears to have a strong build. District 10 offers a medium-sized blonde girl and a boy named Saul who walks with a limp. Perhaps his condition will kill him before I do.

District 11 strikes me particularly. One the female side, a speck of a twelve-year-old girl is drawn. But the male, Thresh, is larger than I am and built like a carthorse. I mark him as a potential ally. Last is District 12. The girl picked at first is a skinny blonde twelve year old named Prim, and I am about to scoff when her sister, a stick-thin girl with black hair darts forward to volunteer, her voice full of desperation. Katniss Everdeen. Apparently having siblings in the games is something we have in common. Her male counterpart is another average sized blonde.

Then, the reapings are done and the anthem plays one last time. I sit back, unimpressed. I have a strong potential team of allies and only a few minor threats. I glance at Clove. She is quiet, and I can't seem to figure out what she is thinking by her face. We are dismissed to go back to our rooms.

I cross Clove in the hallway. "So, what did you think?" I demand.

"Excuse me? What did I think of what?"

"The tributes! Weren't you lining up a strategy already?"

She raises an eyebrow. From here, I can see her eyes are exactly the color of cinnamon. "How do I know you're on my side?"

"Because…because 1, 2, and 4 always team up," I say, confused. "It's just like the rules of the game."

She smiles slyly. "Maybe I don't play by the rules, Cato."

I am astounded by this girl, in the brief moments I have spoken to her. Usually the tributes from Districts where they are trained their entire lives are dying (no joke) to be together. "Well…" I say slowly, "are we allies or not?"

I extend my hand for her to shake. She looks skeptical, but eventually gives in and grasps my hand. "Allies," she agrees.

"Great," I say, and we disperse from there, back to our compartments. Of course, we failed to acknowledge that one of us will get the knife in the back in the end, as it always goes with these truces.

And it's not going to be me.


	4. Advice

Breakfast on the train is subdued. Clove has still made no attempt to get closer to me, despite our truce last night. She sits on the other side of the table with her mentor, buttering her toast calmly. Brutus is here as well, the chair next to him vacant. He offers it to me.

We must be nearly to the Capitol, so now is the perfect time to get acquainted with your mentor. The next couple weeks will be spent training and strategizing for the biggest test of your life. Your mentor becomes your closest friend. Also, tonight are the opening ceremonies, when I will be getting acquainted with the entirety of Panem that does not yet know my name.

Halfway through eating my eggs, Brutus pulls me curtly by the arm into a side room. I don't see the point, because Clove left nearly fifteen minutes ago. Girls require a lot more time with their prep teams. I suppose Brutus wants to take advantage of the extra time.

"So you're Cato Stelle, huh?" he says gruffly, taking a look at me.

"That's my name," I reply, using the same challenging look I used on my father. I respect my mentor, of course, but I can't have him thinking I am a weakling.

He continues to study me, then reaches out and feels my arms, and tips up my chin. "Well you seem like the ideal tribute, Cato," he says.

"Really?" I ask, impressed. I don't need anyone's approval, but having this encouragement from my mentor is assuring.

"Well, you seem strong and sturdy, and with a little work from the prep team, you'll be handsome enough. But I can't judge how much brains you've got in your head by just looking at you. So don't get too brash, boy. You still have something to prove."

"I've got all the brains I need," I grumble. "I've already laid out a strategy to get enough attention before the games. And I've laid out my allies. That reaping left a lot to be desired, but I can still make it a memorable games even with all these easy kills."

Brutus looks slightly amused, which I find infuriating. "Oh really, boy? What's this grand 'strategy' of yours? You've still got a lot of people to convince."

I was angry at this point. Was he calling me stupid, or naïve? "Look," I interjected angrily. "I've got plenty of wit! I can snap a neck with my bare hands! And I have an advantage over these stupid Capitol people. My brother Flint played in the games a couple years ago, which will make me memorable to boot! I'm going to show them all what I'm worth in training," I snarl. "That Clove girl already wants to team up with me. I know what I'm doing. I _won't_ make the same foolish mistakes as my brother!"

"Listen, boy," growls Brutus. "I wasn't taking a stab at you. I have confidence in you, and you seem to have plenty in yourself. Better than those other sad little tributes they've sent me in years past. But even if you think you've got these games in the bag, you can't, _can't_ afford to get cocky. Understand? I'm only trying to help you. I know what it's like to be in that arena. Even the small ones have some worth with the right training. And _don't _underestimate Clove. She's got some backbone, that one. She's got spine that rivals yours."

"So what do _you _suggest I do?" I challenge him.

"Intimidate the others in training, of course. Stay close to the other Careers. Eat what I tell you to. Play to your strengths. And do use that story of yours, but don't reveal it until the night of the interviews. The last thing we need is a leak resulting in less of an impact. I know you don't need sympathy, boy, but with it you'll get plenty of decent sponsors." He pauses. "And save that temper of yours for the arena."

I glower at the advice. Brutus has only told me everything I already knew. But perhaps this is a good thing. Maybe he knows that I am not to be trifled with. "Fine," I say stiffly.

"I have complete faith in you, Cato. But I'm not the one you need to convince."

I nod. I know I have the strength. This isn't a game of brains, but a game of strategy. The other tributes won't be impressed by intelligence, but they'll be hooked on a story. When they see how much I_ want_ to win in combination with how much I am _able _to win, they'll realize what I already know. These games are mine.


	5. This Means War

My prep team is the usual group of colorful Capitol people. Unnatural skin colors, strange, stiff hairstyles, flashy tattoos and clothes, twittery, strange accents, and trivial subjects of conversation. They have already stripped me naked to cleanse and smooth off my skin and remove the 'unwanted' hair. I quickly realized that my body was something of a gem around these Capitol people, who live soft, gentle lives lounging around eating their fill and watching District children die. I life of hard work so far have left me smooth and toned and stripped of fat. My prep team raves over me, saying that they must tell Gemma, my stylist, to bring out an outfit to emphasize my muscles. I am, needless to say, pleased.

Gemma turns out to be a relatively young, blonde, and pretty young woman. Her eyes are an unnatural shade of violet, no doubt enhanced by the Capitol, her hair stick straight, another Capitol remedy. There are scrolling purple tattoos all over her face and arms and tiny diamonds embedded around her eyes. Despite her freakish appearance, it suits her.

She is shorter than me, I notice, as she looks me over. "Is my costume ready?" I demand.

She looks up, then gestures to a garment bag over her arm. "I got your measurements beforehand. I was just looking you over to see what I can do with makeup to play up your skin and body."

"Makeup?" I say, confused. I didn't think that was standard protocol for the male tributes.

"It'll be simple, of course," she says. "The males always wear makeup. Except for that Finnick Odair nine years ago. He was gorgeous. He didn't need makeup of any sort."

I remember Finnick Odair. He won the year before my brother volunteered. He is something of a legend in the Capitol, which only makes me angrier, because I was convinced my brother's victory could outshine his.

Gemma pulls off my robe and helps me into the skintight suit she has designed. It is a bit hard to move in, with its clingy, stretchy fabric. It is a steely gray color, like the Nut on an overcast day. It looks like real metal, and is complete with a hood that mimics the jackets workers in the Nut wear. It isn't the most dazzling costume I've ever seen, but Clove and I will at least look better than District 12. They always look like fools.

After a touchup of my skin with different powders, Gemma lines my eyes with a dark gray eyeliner and emphasizes my cheekbones with a darker powder. Somehow, despite all the frivolous Capitol products, she has managed to make me look dark and menacing.

We have to wait for Clove in the Remake Center for several minutes. She's been gone all day. She emerges wearing a slim, floor-length gown in the same metallic material. Her dark hair is in a complicated style complete with a metallic headdress. Her face is heavily made up and yet still looks wonderful. She looks great. I can tell she got a better stylist than me.

As we are helped into our chariot in the room with all the others, Clove finally speaks to me again.

"Don't you look dashing," she says with a devious smile.

Instantly suspecting something is wrong, I look myself over. "What?" I snap.

She rolls her cinnamon-colored eyes. "It was a compliment, silly."

"It's not my fault you were given a better stylist," I grumble.

"Oh don't be so bitter," she says. "A smile will make everyone in that audience much more ready to sponsor you, regardless of how you look."

I try not to glower as I survey the other tributes. _I'm not the one you need to convinve, _Brutus' words echo in my head. Districts 1, 4, 5, and 6 look especially good. Of course, it helps that 6 was given a good-looking pair of tributes, because they are usually forgettable. They have a similar look, dark hair, dark eyes, and full lips. Glimmer, from District 1, is definitely what I would describe as 'sexy', and her stylists have clearly identified that as an asset. I won't enjoy watching her go.

I watch for Districts 10 and 12, simply to mock their ridiculous costumes, but I can't seem to find them in the organized chaos. Soon, the lights are dimmed, and the tributes hushed as the music begins to play. Here, we begin our journey to the Training Center.

District 1 is first, and the roar of the crowd is obvious. Both of them are exceedingly attractive. Clove straightens her dress and posture and fixes up a smile. We're next.

The crowd cheers loudly for us, as well. I catch sight of us on the giant screens. Clove, in all honesty, looks quite beautiful, and I look fearsome and powerful, more impressive than in the mirror in the Remake Center. I wave to the crowd, who call out our names and cheer. _More admiration,_ I can't help but think smugly. We reach the City Circle, with the two children from 3 only half a minute behind us. Chariots continue to roll in smoothly, the cameras focused on the tributes from 1 and 4, and Clove and I.

But then, pandemonium erupts. I count the chariots around the circle. _1…2…3…_ all the way up to 11. _Ah, _I realize. _District 12. _I wonder what heinous costume they are wearing this year. It must be rather horrible, with this reaction. It's not until they enter the circle that I see what all the fuss was about.

The tributes from 12 are on fire, beautiful, dazzling fire that licks at their backs and illuminates their faces. The others seem as alarmed as me, until we quickly realize it is fake, because these two are absolutely milking the crowd. The girl clutches a rose, and is blowing kisses to the crowd. I realize my hands are clenched in fists. How dare this silly girl get more attention than me!

I quickly notice something else, too. She is holding her partner's hand. I look at the others. This is new. Tributes aren't supposed to be close. Allies, maybe, but not friends. I rack my mind for her name. It was that of a plant, I remember that. I can't even remember the boy's name, but he is not acting as ridiculous as her.

"Who are they?" Clove shouts over the racket the crowd is making.

I hear what they are chanting. _Katniss. _Oh yeah, she volunteered for her sister. "District 12," I say, gritting my teeth.

The music finally ends and Snow appears on his balcony, welcoming us with a speech. With the lights dimmed, District 12 is extremely distracting. The cameras are practically fawning over them. I find myself growing more frustrated by the second, and glance over at Clove. She looks irate too.

When he is finished speaking, the anthem plays again and we are swept around the circle again. The cameras hardly bother with anyone except District 12. By the time we are inside, I am ready to choke that Katniss girl and her stupid little boyfriend. I notice the other tributes, who seem to be cursing them silently. I help Clove down, and she looks furious.

We catch each others' glance, and then look to the other 'Career' tributes. They aren't pleased with being upstaged by District 12, of all Districts, either. We all seem to understand one thing. They can outshine us now, but looks only get you so far in the arena_. _

_This means war._

Review please :) they keep me going


	6. Relax

I storm out of the elevator at the Training Center on the second floor with Clove trailing behind. I tear off the hood of the stupid costume that was too poorly designed to attract even a speck of attention. My fury is unmanageable. I doubt the Capitol even remembers my name, since they were too busy screaming out for the dim-witted tributes from District 12. I feel an uncontrollable urge to punch something.

I turn for a moment to see Clove watching behind me. She looks surprisingly composed.

"And why are you so serene?" I demand. "That shallow little—"

"Relax, Cato," she says smoothly. "You really think a dumb costume and a couple of dense tributes blowing kisses are really enough to worry about?"

"This is about sponsors, Clove!" I yell. The sound of the crowd chanting 'Katniss' makes its way into my head again and I feel a flash of anger. "Dammit!"

"I felt the same way, at first," she says, "but I was looking at them, and I realized that girl is so skinny she probably doesn't have the energy to lift a spear. And that boy can't hold a candle to you either. Training starts tomorrow, anyway. When the scores are put up they'll see that they've been wasting their time."

I stare at her incredulously, because I remember the look on her face outside Snow's mansion. I realize she is following the advice Brutus gave me earlier today: _Save that temper of yours for the arena._ I notice how calculating Clove really is. Instead of being angry, she's added those two to the top of her kill list. I can only wonder what type of method she is saving for her victims in the arena, what special talent she has and with what weapon. She doesn't look like much, but if she has half as much skill with a weapon as she has brains, she'll be one to watch out for.

She sails into her room and I find myself smiling slightly. I could use a girl like that on my side. If only I wasn't trying to kill her. Maybe, if she was waiting for me back home, Cinnabar might have some competition.

I yank off the rest of that ridiculous costume and cool myself down by admiring the room. Everything is programmed with the latest Capitol technology. Even I am impressed by the thousands of functions of the room, available in everything from the closet to the shower to the bed. _Celebrity treatment, _I think as I select a simple outfit for dinner and take a quick shower, rinsing away all of Gemma's work on my face. I gaze at myself in the mirror for a few seconds longer than usual. It's the same Cato I've seen every day of my life. Tall, muscular, dark eyes and hair, golden, weathered skin. There's nothing really impressive about my looks without all the Capitol pomp. I have the look all of all four of my older brothers, and my father. On the outside, I am another boy from District 2. But on the inside, I have the determination of a champion.

_That boy can't hold a candle to you._

I smile again.

* * *

The dining room contains the stylists, Peridot, Brutus, Clove's mentor, and of course, Clove. Her long, dark hair is swept back into a ponytail and she wears a simple black slip. She too has scrubbed away her prep team's makeup, but she did something to highlight her eyes. Clove is not as pretty as some of the other female tributes, like the beautiful District 1 girl, but she always manages to make herself look fierce and intimidating.

Dinner is served by several people in stark white uniforms. They don't speak a single word as they pour wine, serve the courses, and bring out a platter of tarts for dessert. I watch them closely, trying to determine what could possibly be wrong, when it hits me. Micah told me a long time ago about the servants that work in the Capitol. They are criminals that have been punished by having their tongues cut out. Avoxes, he called them. Suddenly, I don't feel so concerned. These people have earned their punishment for foolishness, the same way Flint met his downfall for being careless.

Peridot clears his throat. "Ahem," he says. "I think it's time we discuss that procession. Obviously, it left a lot to be desired."

Clove looks up from the meat she has been cutting into perfectly neat little squares. Her cinnamon eyes dart in my direction.

"It's those damn District 12 kids. Their stylists—" I begin.

"Cato," Brutus growls, warning me. Of course, my stylist, Gemma, is seated directly across the table, sipping her wine nonchalantly, but watching me with careful eyes. Obviously, she can't make me look terrible on purpose, but if I disrespect her, the rest of my time before the Games could be disastrous. Clove knows this, and it is why she has decided to hold her tongue. I find myself grinding my teeth in frustration that she once again knew something I did not.

"District 12's stylists are total amateurs, I assure you," says Peridot calmly, obviously not noticing the tension. "Costumes are only half of the advantage. Training starts tomorrow, and you two will truly have a chance to prove yourselves. Since you are already at a slight disadvantage, don't hold back." He smiles. "I recommend talking to your mentors. Play to your strengths."

I exchanged a glance with Brutus. He nodded towards the door. "You two are dismissed," he said gruffly. "Get some sleep."

I left the dining room and returned to my bedroom as I was told, but instead of sleeping I laid awake thinking of the days to come. Training is never actually covered on television in order to provide the element of surprise for the audiences, but from what I imagine, it's a large room filled with weapons, obstacle courses, and trainers to teach everything from tying knots to throwing knives. Some of these tributes will need all the help they can get, even if it will make no difference in the long run. I already know how to use a sword and throw a knife. I realize that what everyone's been telling me is true, and I begin to lay out a strategy in my head: team up with the career tributes, head straight to the biggest and strongest weapons, and show off my skills.

_We'll see how much pretty costumes mean when it comes to fighting out there in the arena, 12._

* * *

Nothing really happens in this chapter, but stay with me, it'll get better, promise. :) review please!


	7. Memories

I wake up when the first rays of sunlight are streaming through my window. Breakfast probably isn't nearly ready, since no one has called for me yet, but it is as if my body is already pining for the training we will do today.

I get into the shower and select the simple, hot water functions, ignoring the ridiculous perfumes and frilly sponges it offers. I let the warmth wash over me, forgetting for a moment where I am and what I must do today to outshine my competition. The heat begs me to relax, and I let myself slip away, back to District 2, for the briefest of moments. Not surprisingly, Flint's games are the first that come to mind.

* * *

_The reaping of the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games took place on an overcast, drizzly morning, unlike this reaping past. Flint stood with the other eighteen-year-olds, his jaw locked. He had entered for three rounds of tesserae, since Mother had only allowed two of her sons to go off to the mine as of the time, and money was running scarce after the harsh weather of the past year had forced her to spend most of it on food. Still, our family was better off than some of the others gathered around the square, which had hoards of kids and not enough work. At least I would be readily hired along with all of my brothers when I came of working age, and no one would have to enter for tesserae again._

_In a way, Flint had been set up like a pig for slaughter. Being the oldest, Father had made him responsible for taking the needed rations and having his name entered extra times in order to "save" Micah, Cliff, and Malachi from the Games. However, all of us knew that Father chose Flint because he was the oldest, the strongest, and the one he trusted the most to "make him proud." Mother lived in fear of the Games, but it had been Father's dream to have one of his sons win in that battle of life and death and spend his days in glory._

_I clung to my mother's arm outside the area where my brothers stood with their peers. I was the only one in my family not old enough for the reaping. My father stood hard and tall, with the same locked jaw as Flint. It was strange how much they resembled each other. Mother shivered. She now had four sons up for reaping. Four sons too many._

_Peridot (back then with hair that was styled differently in accordance with Capitol trends, and skin that wasn't stretched quite so tight) sat directly behind Larks as he gave the usual speech about the history of the District and the past victors. I tried to find my brothers in the crowd. Micah stood with his fingers intertwined with his girlfriend. Malachi, then only thirteen and still new to the Games, stood nervously near the front. I couldn't find Cliff._

_When the reaping balls were brought forth, Peridot strode forward to select the female tribute. He plunged his hand deep into the center and pulled the name. "Cleo Shackle!"_

_I didn't know her, but she seemed to be only twelve, her lip trembling as she walked forward. I saw the pity and fear in my own mother's eyes as she watched the little girl take her place on the stage, determined not to cry. When Peridot crossed the stage to draw from the boys' ball, I felt Mother squeeze my hand. A hush fell as he reached through the slips of paper, finally selecting one. His voice rang out over the square._

_"Flint Stelle!"_

_I felt my mother sag next to me and drop to her knees, her face in her hands. Flint strode forward, his gait stiff. No one volunteered for him. My father was well known for wanting one of his sons to compete._

_Flint looked out at the crowd, his expression hard. Despite my mother's dread and my apprehension, I couldn't help but be impressed by the fearsome stature and strong expression of my eldest brother._

_The drizzling rain kicked up as the anthem played. Little Cleo looked terrified, but my brother wore no emotions on his face, assuming his new burden of being a tribute as easily and as bravely as he took everything._

* * *

I turned off the water, the memories leaving me as the cold air rushed to my face. I had tried so hard to appear as composed as Flint on the podium the day I was reaped. It occurred to me, as I stood waiting to be automatically dried by the shower, that I had taken many things from my brother. His demeanor, his expectations, even some of his strategies.

I tried to picture Flint's face clearly, since it had been years since I had tried, but all of sudden it burst into my head in perfect detail.

Flint's anguished face in his final moments as he watched the ax being raised high above his head appeared in my mind's eye.

I gasped and slipped on the wet floor, into a puddle of the still-warm shower water. I grasped my head in my hands, determined to rid myself of the image, remembering why I had chosen to forget that fateful day in the 67th Hunger Games. For an instant, I felt the long, spindly fingers of fear clutching at my heart.

As quickly as it had come, the feelings were gone as I remembered my mission here. I had learned from my brother's mistakes. I was determined not to make them again.

I refused to die, and today I would make that refusal clear to them all.

* * *

So, it's not much, but I felt bad for taking such a long hiatus, and I wanted to start explaining the whole "67th Hunger Games thing" and show a more vulnerable side to Cato that will begin to emerge.

Anywhoo, please don't hate me, readers :O oh and please review, as always. :) Danke!


	8. Lethal

That morning at breakfast, I dig into all the protein I can get my hands on, shoveling eggs, sausages, and ham into my mouth, along with some toast and fruit. Clove is watching me with eyebrows raised, primly buttering her own roll. "Hungry?" she says stiffly. I ignore her. So what if I'm grossing her out? Her lack of appetite will be even more advantageous to me, I think as I snort into a forkful of eggs.

Her eyes narrow at my apparent carefree attitude, but before she can remark, our mentors arrive in the room. "Don't choke yourself, boy," Brutus growls.

Clove wipes her mouth and excuses herself from the table to go speak with Bristol, and I realize that my breakfast has turned into a strategizing session.

"Make sure you eat some carbs at your meals from now on too, Cato," Brutus commands at first. Wordlessly, I reach for another slice of toast, watching him with level eyes. "I assume your father's taught you all the basics, Cato? Swords, knives, spears, clubs, et cetera?"

I nod, halfway through a mouthful of toast.

"Judging by your build, I'd say you're half decent at lifting, too. And hand to hand combat. You'll need to show the judges all of these when you go in for your private sessions in order to get a good score, so practice as much as you can. It won't hurt you to show off to the other tributes, either."

I swallow and clear my throat. "What about the other stations?" I ask, judging his reaction. Though camouflage, knot-tying, and tree-climbing seem useless for the strategy I plan to use, I want to know Brutus' opinion on them.

He raised an eyebrow. "What about them? You know what you need to do, Cato. Visit them if you have time, but don't worry about them too much. _Play to your strengths,"_ he repeated.

I nodded, and shook Brutus' hand. "What are they talking about?" I asked, my eyes flickering in the direction of the door out of which Clove and Bristol had exited. "What's she got to hide?"

Brutus, in spite of himself, smiled gruffly. "You know I can't tell you, boy. Trade secrets. She specifically asked to be coached separately. God knows that girl has some tricks up her sleeves. I don't like the look of her. She looks lethal and clever."

"And I don't?" I challenged angrily, starting to feel that Clove was falling into favor with everyone, even my own mentor. Why did she always seem to be two steps ahead?

"Look at yourself, boy. Everything you have to fear is laid out on you. You can take anyone down with your bare hands. But that girl's a sly little minx. I don't like her. She's got some something behind her eyes, so you better keep _yours_ on her."

* * *

By the time we entered the gymnasium, I was still glowering about Brutus' comments about Clove. We are one of the first pairs to arrive, after changing into the tight black training uniform. An assistant pins our district number to our backs. Already I see the tall girl from District 7 with her tiny cousin close by, as well as the District 6 girl, both tributes from District 10, and Glimmer and Marvel, the two potential allies from District 1. I looked over at Clove, and we both seemed to silently agree that now was the time to align ourselves with them.

Marvel seems to smirk the instant we come over. "Cato and Clove," he says, before we can introduce ourselves. "I saw you at the reapings. What do you think of the competition this year?"

I look around the gymnasium at more of the tributes beginning to file in, but there's still no sign of the ridiculous girl from 12 and her stocky blonde partner. The little girl from 11 is already here, though, standing in the corner quietly.

"Maybe we could toss that one around and knock some people out," I offer, and Glimmer and Marvel laugh. Clove stands there with her arms folded, one eyebrow raised as if she were bored.

"I'll tell you what," she said. "We pick off that Katniss girl first chance we get. I was hoping all last night that something would go wrong with that fire."

Glimmer, the beautiful blonde, tosses her hair. "She's too skinny. And she's from 12. Probably never even touched a weapon before."

For a moment my thoughts flash back to Brutus' warning about being cocky. But before I have a chance to question my new alliance, all of the tributes have arrived and we have to gather around to hear the rules of training be read off. No physical contact with other tributes, unfortunately. Like Clove, I wouldn't mind giving that Katniss girl a fat lip for upstaging me last night.

Soon, though, we're released to practice. Instantly, I head for the spears and swords and the impressive weapons I can throw at the dummies and show my strength. I spear all six of the lined up dummies through the heart, even from 100 feet away, and I can see Marvel's nod of approval out of the corner of my eye as I deftly chop the head off one of the figurines with a swift blow. Marvel throws a spear like a javelin and hits the same dummy square in the stomach, a blow that would certainly be fatal. Glimmer's not bad with the weapons, either, but her accuracy's a little off. Clove, however, I can't seem to find.

"Where's Clove?" I ask Glimmer, who's now practicing her archery, a skill she obviously needs to improve. She tosses her gold hair and points to the knife station.

I watch, dumbfounded, as Clove throws a dozen short silver knives in such quick succession I fear I might miss it if I blink. Her accuracy is lethally, frighteningly perfect, hitting every target right in the center. She throws without pausing, without missing. Obviously, this is what she'll be showing the judges. This is her special skill.

She pauses as a weary assistant scrambles to pick up the knives, and smoothes her hair. "You're really good," I say, impressed in spite of myself.

She grins. "I never miss."

We continue practicing until lunch, and then after eating with Marvel, Glimmer, and the tributes from 4, Freesia and Dune, we go back to work. Heeding Brutus' advice, I stick to lifting and sword fighting, the skills I'll most likely use in the arena. Clove switches to throwing spears while Marvel and Dune lift immense amounts of weight. Although she isn't quite as accurate with a spear, she moves with the speed and swiftness of a deadly predator. I think back to her cutting her meat into perfect squares, and I can't help but think of her doing the same with the body of a tribute. Next to her, Glimmer and Freesia look pathetic.

Clove Reddenfield was indeed lethal.

* * *

I'm truly, desperately sorry for going away for so long and not updating, and to be honest, I won't be offended if no one reads this xD

But thank you, thank you all for the very nice reviews! I'll try hard not to go away for so long next time :)

And if you can find it in your heart to review and not hate me, I always appreciate :) thank you and enjoy!


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